Into the Badlands
by Montrachet
Summary: In the kinda place where things're bad and people are worse, it's my job to find the good ones still livin'. The only trouble there is convincin'm that a sanctuary they ain't heard nothin' about is real, and that strangers they never met don't mean'm no harm. But for the right ones, or the right one, it's worth the risk. And I'll be damned if she wasn't as right as they come.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

 _There it was. No matter how rough n' tumble the New World had become, the worst part about it was that 'it' would always be there, hangin' around over ya like some kinda deep, stiflin' fog._

 _'It' was the smell of it all._

 _A putrid kinda stench that permeated every single thing y'ever could hope to lay eyes on from here to the edge of the horizon. May be ironic, but as pristine and as pretty as the New World could look sometimes, that stench'd always be there to remind you: This's their world now._

 _This's the realm of the dead._

 _If I'm honest, I ain't sure how many years it'd been since the whole thing started. I certainly can't count how many times I'd a'nearly kicked it, or how many walkers we'd ended since the beginnin'; the number'a nights I couldn't sleep, or the number'a nights I just plain wouldn't._

 _And if I'm honest, that part don't really matter, either. Not in the long of it, and not in the short of it. Gettin' tangled up in the tragedy'a how it all started was one of those luxuries y'couldn't afford anymore. Whether it was your god, my god, karma, or just a matter'a time? Well, that doesn't change nothin'. It is what it is, now._

 _I ain't tryin'a sound harsh, but it's not like we had any answers, anyway. All the wonderin' in the world wasn't gonna do you no good, 'cause what happened to 'em is just like what happened to most people. All those answers you might'a been lookin' for? Those were long gone. The plague of the undead went down so fast that not'a one of us knows if anyone even had 'em to begin with._

 _What we do know is, when it comes to geeks, walkers, biters, or whatever y'wanna call 'em, it's one'a them numbers games. If you're gonna be outnumbered -and you will be outnumbered- y'better not be outgunned. It's prob'ly best if y'ain't too shy, neither, though a little bit of time out here is bound to earn ya some brass if it don't get the best'a you first._

 _But while we're over here bein' honest, I think what sticks with you the most tends t'be the person you've become in the aftermath, and the kinda folks the people around you have become in turn. I damn sure remember every friend this world made me have t'say goodbye to since the beginnin', and every man I had to kill t'survive with the ones I had left; the ones that become family. They're the ones that help keep your own humanity alive, even when its embers're smolderin' under the weight of what it means to have a life in this mess; the ones that make this place the type'a nightmare that can be worth a shit._

 _So, no matter what kinda peace you maybe could'a found in a moment, or in a sunrise; in an hour, or in a smile; shit, maybe even in the likes of a new day's promise (if you gone wax'n poetic like some hopeful son of a bitch); the 'it,' that smell, will make sure you never forget that the whole world's dyin'. And it's fightin' like hell to take you right down with it._

 _And if that's the way it's gonna be?_

 _Well..._

 _Come'n get it._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Birdsong**

* * *

There always was somethin' about spending time in the woods that res'nated with me. Even now, some six hundred miles north'a what'd been the back country I'd spent my whole life mapping a way through, the air takes on that dusty pink color right before dawn. It floods itself over the Virginia mountainside, same as it did back in Georgia; back before all this. Back when I's growin' up and lookin' for something, anything, to keep me as far from the house as I could go for as long'a time as I could manage. The break'a day through a matchbook crowd'a skinny, dewy pines makes me feel more at home than just about anything else right now can.

Deanna must've known that, though. She's part'a the reason I'm out here. For as much as I feel like a fish outta water every time I walk into Alexandria, somethin' inside me believes in that place. Believes in her. She may not understand what kinda shape the outside world is in, or how dire the straits is, but Deanna ain't stupid, and she def'nitely ain't cruel. Hell, Alexandria sure as shit ain't no Terminus, and that's about all y'could hope t'ask for in days like these. It's like the bunch'us slipped and fell and accidentally found fucking Christmas when we first set foot in that town. Alexandria, that is.

"So, what do you think?" The sound of Aaron's voice took me a little by surprise. With our boy Eric on retirement, Aaron and I made good on our ritual of stayin' out beyond the gates for a few days at a time when we got some solid intel. We'd find a lead every once in a while; a few people, a small group. Then we'd spend some time trackin'm; watchin'm as they hunt and forage. We'd wait to see if they was workin' decent together. Wait to see if they's good people. Mostly we'd watch'm steal from one another. On the best days, we'd be held up at gunpoint tryna convince the good'uns to come with us. On the worst days, we'd head back for town hopeless as an empty barrel'a whiskey after they killed each other or got torn 'part alive.

But today was different.

"What do I think?" My words was gruff, like I ain't said a thing for days. Maybe I hadn't. "I think I ain't seen nothin' like it before, that's what I think." Here we are, two grown-ass men of the Apocalypse, hangin' on for dear life in the middle'a some branches that's twenty feet above the ground. He's over there squintin' behind a pair'a binoculars like somebody's withered old grandma, and I might as well be goin' blind tryna decide what the hell we's lookin' at from a hundred yards away. "I seen a lot since the end'a the world, man. But a couple'a broads pitchin' their tent up in the trees is somethin' else."

And it was somethin' else. _Them two_ was somethin' else. I had spotted'm maybe four days ago, out on a hunt. Usually, the critters I look for stick to the ground, but there was somethin' about this bird call I kept hearin' that hooked me. It didn't sound like any bird I'd heard before; it was hollow and haunted and just plain sounded like good eatin'. The idea'a bringin' back a meal that wasn't a cottontail or a deer was enough to send me lookin'. With a bolt aimed at the sky, I tracked that damn bird for hours, waitin' for another bit'a song to keep myself on the course.

It must'a been around high noon when I came up beneath her; must'a held my breath for a coon's age waitin' for'er to call out again. But she did, and that's when I saw her. High above the forest floor, up there in the bounds skimmin' the blue. There was a a woman, with her hands cupped over her mouth, singin' that weird-ass fuckin' birdsong. I couldn't make out much of anything 'tween the sweat cloudin' my eyes and the white-hot sun right above her head, but I could sure as hell hear, and that was all I needed.

Aaron and I went out the next day and found her again in the very same way. We named Jungle Jane 'Birdsong,' and her comrade 'Watcher Girl,' since we ain't too creative. They'd been movin' steady for two days towards a small town with a few bum-empty shops and a clinic, settin' up their camp in some hammock-lookin' thing in the tops'a trees to avoid the fray. Birdsong would make sure the coast was clear from above, and Watcher Girl would scout below 'round a mile or two at a time. When Watcher Girl followed the call back to camp, they'd go on and move to the next spot, settin' it up all over again. It might'a been strange as hell, but it was smart as hell, too.

"No," Aaron tucked away his binoculars and gave me one'a them grim lookin' stares. The sun was above the slope now. "Not a couple." He continued,"I haven't seen Watcher Girl since sunset." Shit. That wasn't the type'a call to arms I was hoping for. "The other one is making moves, probably to go find her."

He didn't need to say the rest. The concern was all over his face, lookin' like somebody just knocked down his ice cream cone on the hot summer pavement. I nodded. "Let's get gone. They ain't long for this world if we lose'm."

And the last thing we want is to lose'm.

* * *

 **AN:** Thank you for reading. All feedback is welcome!


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Raiders**

* * *

It was warm. Uncomfortably warm. I could feel the familiar, disenchanting sensation of sweat beading down along my spine. Heat was seeping into the tent with abandon, like it was totally okay for it to just be there all at once without an invitation. My reluctant consciousness began piecing together that morning must be creeping into the thick already.

No.

No, no, and no.

I actually had less than zero interest in opening my eyes. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'd just been dreaming about things like the French countryside, swimming pools filled with Champagne, and piles of money. You know, the same stuff that we all enjoyed dreaming about from time to time back in the day. Even if sleep was the only place I could have had those things to begin with, I coveted dreams of that caliber a little more in this era because, for the most part, piles of money and swimming pools filled with Champagne were obsolete. At least in post-apocalyptic-rural-filled-to-the-brim-with-zombies-wherever-the-fuck-we-are-right-now. Much to my own dismay.

It wasn't until I felt the tension swell within my ribcage that I surrendered to the daylight. Squinting against the sunrise, my mouth quickly found the crook of my elbow, stifling a particularly nasty cough. It sounded downright ugly, but on the bright side it did mean that I wasn't quite dead yet.

"Ry?" My whisper was hoarse; not unlike that of an old woman who held a batting average of two packs a day for forty years. At least we were only about half an hour from whichever small township in the middle of Maryland we scouted, and it had an attractive, relatively un-ransacked-looking clinic. Probability would charge that the building already be barren of supplies and completely bursting at the seams with chomping corpses, and Murphy's Law would almost guarantee it. But, hey, it's the best luck we've had since running aground in the middle of the Potomac last week, so why not storm that piece like this is 1944 and we're in Normandy?

I called out to Ryan again before resigning myself to an upright position.

The tent was quiet.

Her day pack was gone.

Another cough.

Damn it.

A note.

An unwelcome chill surged through my veins. One of dread.

I didn't read it. Mostly because I didn't need to. Although we had planned to go on a raiding rampage together at daybreak, she had gone to the clinic alone in search of antibiotics, and I knew it. The reason more than likely being that she was the most able-bodied of the two of us, and we were the only 'two of us' left. It hadn't happened long ago, but whatever unpleasant pathogen had ravaged our group before port in Baltimore eventually caught up to your girl, and it soon became clear that it would continue to render me utterly fucking useless until we could get our hands on something a little more potent than Children's Tylenol (which is delicious, by the way, but remarkably inefficient).

"Wake up, Tank." Glancing over at the sleeping ball of fur and ears and loving fury in the corner of the tent, the twitch of his leg caught my eye as I spoke. Thankfully, Tank was the type of dude that could roll either way. Sleep all day? Good enough for Tank. Adventure instead? Tank's your man. Swerving on some undead? Tank's about it. The thought of taking him along for the ride made my stomach lurch, but the thought of leaving him alone in the middle of the woods was even less appealing. He and Ryan were the only two friends in the world that I had left, and leaving either of them behind was, quite frankly, not something I could do for as long as I was still alive.

Hesitantly, he rose and shook off the remainder of his sleep. ' _Showoff,'_ I mused to myself before being interrupted by a deluge of _goodmorningomgihaventseenyouinforever_ kisses and clumsy, paw-heavy hugs. I quelled him as quickly as possible and threw myself headlong into my particular flavor war paint; dirty khaki shorts, dirty leather boots to the knee, and a shirt that was white a few days ago. I made a mental note to grab a razor from town and take it to these legs like a butcher to cattle later. Old habits die hard.

"Let's go fuck some shit up." The enthusiasm in my voice surprised me, but I liked it. In reality, the idea of trekking a mile and a half through the uncharted wilderness alone and without a plan was absolutely terrifying. Improvising was a skill I often sought to master, but never got further with than the occasional well-timed and really excellent pun. To say that I felt slightly out of my element would be far too kind.

But nothing worth doing is easy.

And if it scares you even a little, it is probably something worth doing.

Tying a black handkerchief around my mouth and nose, I slipped through the side panel of the tent and scaled our ladder rig to the next branch up. Tank and I would have to move quickly if we were going to catch up to her before anything more unsavory did. Snatching the pair of Steiners from its hang, my vision struggled to come into focus against the lens. The roadway funneled into view as an indistinct blur, and it was peppered about with some of those groaning, dead-eye types. There was no renegade partner in sight, however. My heart began to throw itself hard and fast against my chest without mercy.

It was going to be one of those whiskey-gargling, leave the camp set kind of mornings.

Some time in the beginning, when it all started, our crew crossed paths with a family from the mainland. They introduced us to walkerflage, or the idea that when you reek of decay, walkers wouldn't pay you too much heed if you were to stalk among them. Ever since then, whenever we came ashore, we hung enough slime-covered ponchos next to the tent for each of us every night in preparation. Just in case we had to move fast and pack light. Two years ago, there were a dozen. Last night, we hung only three. With a little something heavy on my soul, I threw one around my shoulders, tied the little one around Tank, swished and spit out my rye like a lady, and grabbed our supplies and arms on the descent.

The earth rushed up to meet us, walkerflaged dog under one arm and ladder rail in the opposite hand. There was no time to hide the traces of our camp the good old-fashioned way, so I set Tank down at my side and tossed several errant dry branches over the wooden rungs at eye-level while he found a few interesting things to water. Satisfied for the time being, I hit the ground running toward the main drag, happy-go-lucky pooch falling into stride at my heels. This was probably not advisable for someone with pneumonia or whatever it was, but I didn't anticipate having too much time left in the absence of modern medicine, anyway. At this rate, we would make it into town in approximately twelve minutes. Go big or go fuck yourself, right?

The first five minutes of the flight were the hardest. My entire body ached and protested, but somewhere deep within my blood I loved every second of it. Running was something I missed dearly, something I used to do for fun, and something I hadn't been able to do since the start of it all. As we hedged upon the asphalt, nearing the township, the noxious odor of decomposing flesh lay heavy in the air. I hadn't been able to smell anything for over seven days, and I didn't particularly care to start now. I slowed to a halt, hacking several times as I knelt and opened the largest compartment of my backpack.

"You know the drill, little man," I coughed again against my shoulder, surveying our surroundings. "Get inside." The low drone of rasping and snarling reverberated from a distance. I had no idea how many there were, but it seemed wise to tread lightly through the home stretch.

Tank paused, as if to let me know just how much he really didn't like it in there, before cautiously stepping in and relishing the morsel of jerky conveniently planted at the bottom. Zipped and secure, I rose to my feet with the pack on my back and continued through the cut, softening my gait and pulling the hood of my poncho overhead. I knew he hated it in there, but on our approach to the clinic the sparsely roaming undead were the least of my fears. Most of them were innocuous and quite literally falling apart; slow to move, slower to react, and blissfully unaware that we walked near them. They wouldn't cause me too much trouble until I had to start cracking skulls, which I often tried to avoid as a preservation measure. People, however, could never be trusted. And it's people in this heinous and incredibly fucked up world that I save my bullets for.

 _Bang._

Buzzards squawked, taking to the clouds in swift disarray from the roof of the clinic at the sound of discharge.

Fuck.

 _Bang._

Another gunshot. Dead-eyed motherfuckers from all around started slinking toward the noise. It was about two hundred yards to the building, and about to be heavy with walkers from all sides. It was either run now or run later.

Fuck it.

 _Bang_. _Bang._

The commotion was coming from inside of the clinic.

I shouted Ryan's name as loud as I could. We were out of time. Drawing the aluminum bat from my back, I took a deep breath, pretended that this was the movies and I was a total fucking badass, and went in raw. To be honest, I have no idea how I lived this long, anyway, so it's almost like counting on luck and just assuming it's going to be there when it's needed is an acceptable practice. ' _If_ _I were to live through this, I should probably invest in the type of psychiatrist that counsels people for their impulsive behavior and poor decision-making.'_ The fleeting idea left my mind as quickly as it had come. There was no living through this.

 _Bang._

Five shots.

The tightening in my chest intensified as I began to close the gap. My legs were burning, but there was less than three hundred feet to cover. Tank and the supply pack were bouncing violently (sorry, little buddy), but the precious cargo inside would be fine, even if a little shaken up. Groans of all kinds grew deeper and louder, but, god damn it, I was almost there. All she had to do was hold out for another minute or two.

 _Bang._

There may have been only a hundred feet between myself and the building, but there were about a dozen lean and hungry looking corpses running interference with the service ladder. Twelve was a number large enough to stop me dead in my tracks. If there were any part of the day where being prepared may have been useful, this would have been it. Since I sincerely doubted the undead would appreciate my dry sense of humor, at the very least I would have to improvise in the medium of violent strategy. In the game of numbers, these types of geeks most definitely had the upper hand. The living had to be rich in resources to compete with that.

But didn't I have something for this?

I had to have something for this.

Something? Pockets.

Anything? Damn it.

Lighter. Yes.

"Ryan?! Ryan, hold on!" Tearing the poncho apart at the center, I scanned for any sign of her wildly and fumbled to ignite the entrails-soaked plastic. Suffice it to say, it was terribly anti-climactic and just sort of shriveled up and smelled awful. The shouting, however, managed to garner enough attention to make my life a little bit harder. Flanked on all sides, nausea and the realization that the odds are building against our cause began to set in. There was no room to retreat or regroup. And as far as I could tell, there was no Ryan, either. To my chagrin, only a third of the walkers by the ladder were seduced by my relatively unimpressive pyrotechnics display, and the ones at my back were moving too close for comfort.

 _'Go big or go fuck yourself, right?'_

Very few mid-range weapons are as suitable for catastrophic blunt-force trauma as the aluminum baseball bat. It is amazingly lightweight and durable, and when swung even modestly can fracture the human skull without risk of getting lodged within the bone. With a single, fluid motion, your Louisville Slugger from little league can induce irreparable damage to the human or formerly human brain, and return to the ready position in under two and half seconds. I've only tested it on dead men, but take my word for it: It is the single most under-appreciated melee weapon in the arsenal.

If I was ever going to get to Ryan, it had to be now. The entire world was a blur of motion and blood. Between you and I, none of those things people said about adrenaline are true. Time did not 'slow down,' and I did not move gracefully as though this were the Matrix. Instead, it was quick and dirty. It was clumsy and filled with errors. If I could do it all again, I would bring a flamethrower and call it a day.

Charging forward, I cold-cocked the first geek in the line of eight through the cheek. I could have vomited unceremoniously after being sprayed with putrid tissue and bone matter, and I really, really wanted to, but now wasn't the time. I drew again, and felled another. From behind me emanated the salacious and primal moans of the undead; my bat caught the neck and shoulder of the next one in line, and I followed the momentum through to deal a blow to the backdoor man. By the fifth, my head was spinning and my peripheral vision had blackened. I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't see. Any time those psychedelic DMT-ish chemicals wanted to kick in pre-imminent death would have been fine with me.

 _Shink._

Flagged between gaunt sockets by an arrow, the sixth one fell. Without bothering to turn around, I gathered enough strength to swing clean through lucky number seven, the one in front of the ladder, and pulled myself up onto the rusted steel just in time to watch the last walker against the concrete siding slump lifelessly onto the asphalt, another brightly colored stick jutting out from the temple. I remembered my swimming pool filled with Champagne, coughed, and hauled myself to the top of the roof to return the favor. Within three rounds, the two men, Arrow Man and Handsome Guy, were climbing. They were an oddly-matched pair at best.

"Get up here and drop your fucking weapons." I always did have a way with words.

* * *

 **AN:** Cliffhangers are my way of letting the reader know I'm sleepy.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: No Trespassing**

* * *

I'll never forget what it was like watchin' her stand right in front of me for the first time, my Birdsong. It was the same feelin' I got when we'd finally found that horse, Buttons. It'd felt good then, like maybe everything'd be alright for a while if somethin' that beautiful could make it so far in a place like this. But today was just a little diff'rent. A little better. Because today, this time, we had what we'd been searchin' for. This girl we tilled the ground for over the last three days couldn't've been more than five feet in front of us. She was as alive as could be, and she was safe.

She might'a been covered in brains, blood, and whatever-the-hell-else from head to toe. Might'a been wearin' a bandana over her face while she kept us on our toes at the end of a gun like some penny-western bandit. But there was somethin' about finally being able to see her up close that made the rest'a the world fall away for a second. My breath hitched up in my chest. People like Birdsong and Watcher Girl were the type that we needed, and the type that we needed t'keep safe. They weren't exactly in high supply back when laws was a thing, and they've become even more rare a find now that there's nothin' to keep the big bads in check. Maybe wantin' to protect'm made me a good-for-nothin' idealist son of a bitch, but I figured someone oughtta be.

In the three days we'd spent lookin' after them two, we hadn't been able to draw close 'nough to see much of anything. The dog they's travelin' with meant we had to hang back a ways if we hoped to keep our cover up 'til we's ready to be seen. Aaron and I had a hunch from the get-go that they weren't from 'round out here, but it wasn't 'til the end of our first day on recon that we started piecin' it all t'gether. Small fish bones were always layin' up over the dry brush near their tracks when we made moves to gain, but the nearest creek weren't exactly a stone's throw away. Birdsong's skin was the color'a honey, and Watcher Girl's hair was 'bout as white as the damn summer sun, but most people spent as much time under shelter as they could here in the New World. If y'wanna throw some icing on top'a that cake, when we inspected their camp this mornin' before headin' into town after'm, we seen it rigged between trees with some next-level lookin' knots.

They weren't the brand'a people you saw traveling on foot through the hillside. Nah. These's the kinda people that made a livin' out there on the islands. The kind y'hear rumors about every so often. Girls could'a been on a vessel of some kind hangin' around the inside of the coast, at the very least, but I think they's too savvy for that. If I had to take a guess, I'd say they'd been livin' out there in the middle'a the ocean for a minute. Explains how they made it through the last three years alive, with a dog, and a couple'a tans the girls back home would talk 'bout gettin' on the weekends.

Droppin' my crossbow, Lucy, to the ground (sorry, Lucy), I raised my hands 'bove my head. Wasn't exactly the type'a thing I's expecting after savin' her some skin, but you couldn't really fault somebody for not being able to trust people they meet out here in the world now'days. It's more ugly a place than the one I grew up in, and I didn't think it could get much uglier than the way I'd seen it back then.

Though I wouldn't consider myself a believer in too many things, Birdsong seemed like she weren't the type to take a life unless she ain't have much a choice. So if I could believe in that for as long as it took to convince her t'hear us out, we'd be good.

"You've got about ten seconds," Birdsong coughed somethin' fierce and vile, "to give me a reason not to shoot you both." She motioned over to the door on the far side'a the roof. Thing was drippin' in more chains than Rick Ross on a Sunday. "I'm fucking busy."

Now, I'd be lying if I said that the bit'a attitude on her didn't make me a little more fond that I's the one to find her. If she was scared, she sure as hell didn't look it. And even though sassin' us made her a pain in the ass right now, the kinda brass hardware she's swingin' is the kind you want on your side when everything else turns to shit.

That being said, die-cast as she might'a been, she wasn't lookin' too stable on her feet. For a brick wall of a woman who just ran straight into the gates'a Hell five minutes ago to get some casual battin' practice, Jungle Jane was havin' some kinda trouble keeping her trigger hand steady.

"We're friends. We're here to he-" Aaron's monologue ended real quick. Birdsong wasn't feelin' too friendly today, I reckoned after she cut 'im off.

"Not you, J. Crew," she cut in. I didn't laugh. I wanted to, but I didn't _._ "Arrow Man." She flipped her glasses to the top of her head. Droppin' the bandana 'round her neck, our girl stared me down cold.

Yup. Definitely wasn't feelin' friendly. I'd been named worse in my lifetime, though, so Arrow Man didn't really bother me none. In fact, if she didn't kill us, I'd make sure to save Aaron's new nickname to use on'm later. Y'know, since he has taken to callin' me 'Dix' and all. Not too sure what a J. Crew was, but he seemed t'dislike it 'nough to make me wanna use it.

Birdsong's hair was the same color as her skin, save a keen shot a silver through it. It was some other type'a wild, really. Her eyes may be only a shade or two darker than that, but they'd taken to lookin' like she hadn't slept in weeks. Even though it was colder than a witch's tit outside this mornin', her cheeks was spotted red and her lips were the sort'a grey that'd make you plain uneasy. I ain't a doctor by any stretch, but I know when someone's number is 'bout to come up. The looks of her gave me the feelin' that Birdsong might'a had only four or five good days left in 'er, and maybe two weeks overall if we's bein' nice about it.

Watcher Girl must'a taken a run over here on'er own for some of that good shit that ends in '-cillin.' And Birdsong wouldn't let her go it alone.

That's good people if ever I seen'm.

"You're sick," I tried talkin' to her in a gentle way, tryna make our case as quick and as easy as I could without givin' her cause for alarm. Losin' sight'a Watcher Girl was on me, and I knew it. Didn't think I could bear it if I scared off Birdsong, too. 'Specially given the shape that she was in right around now. "We got meds." Aaron took the side-eye cue and tossed her his medicine bag. "What we ain't got is time. We need to get in there after Goldilocks."

She didn't answer right away, but my eyes wouldn't leave her. They couldn't, what with the barrel of a pistol right there 'tween'um an' all. My head, or close enough to it, still lined up in her sights, Birdsong knelt down for the canvas pack Aaron'd given up. It only took her a few seconds to figure out that it was one of those gestures'a good faith that used to happen every once in a while. You know, back before the shit storm started and the whole globe spun into fucking anarchy. After seein' a bunch'a orange bottles stuffed to the top with antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and even some of the fun stuff, she lowered her revolver. Good thing, too, 'cause my fingers was gettin' kinda numb from hangin' out up in the blue.

That was when I heard it. When we all did.

A kinda lifeless, nasty rattle of somethin' metal. There's nothin' quite like the sound of a walker that's clawing at you from behind a door. Somethin' desperate and feral about it that makes them small hairs on the back of my neck stand up every single time. I could hear the raspin' of its haggard-ass breath, each and every one'a them. There were at least five deadheads in there, and they'd found somethin' they wanted.

A feeble, deliberate sort'a pounding came from the same place. Then so did a call for help.

"Ryan?!" Birdsong looked over. For a minute I wondered if that was what all of us looked like when we were shit-scared and graspin' at the straws of hope because none'a our options were any good.

The woman's muffled scream caught to the air like a bullet, and it was comin' from behind the barricaded wall. She must'a been trapped inside the stairwell by a half inch'a steel and twenty feet of padlocked chain. When the calls and cries b'came more frenetic, I tensed up. I knew no matter how many times we'd'a shot that door, we wouldn't be able to open it 'fore she had to make her peace. It was already too late; they'd laid teeth in 'er. Less than ten seconds had gone by since we heard the door rattle the first time, and whoever was in there was gonna be turnin' into one'a them motherless bastards before noon.

Before I could get to her, Birdsong was across the rooftop. Her voice was hoarse and loud all at once, yellin' her friend's name over, and over again.

There've been many times, in this day in age, when I felt like life's moved too fast. When good things happen, and then before y'ever saw it comin' they's gone. Or when the odds was stacked against you, and everythin' was some ind'stinct, cluttered mess'a cause and effect that y'couldn't piece together even after you'd made it out alive. But this wasn't one'a those times. Instead, it was the other kinda time. The kind when every single thing was goin' slow enough to drive you straight to madness. Painful-feeling. Permanent, like this fucking awful moment was glued into place exactly where you're standin' until it rips the beatin' heart right outta you. It was the same like this when I lost Beth, and the same when I found Merle. That old twinge in my eyes obscured my line'a sight. I wiped them sons'a bitches clear and slung Lucy onto my back.

I didn't really know what the hell to do, but I'd made it over to the door in time to watch her let down her bag and throw herself against the pitted metal. Hearin' her crash onto a wall wrapped in rusted and jagged chains with all her might made my guts turn. Tryna break her fall on the rebound, I caught her with my right arm. Birdsong shook me n' went for the door again. Half the words comin' outta her mouth were things I'd never even heard a truck driver say. She was wailing, tryna break through that door with her own body just t'get to the other side for a dead woman. The impact'a the chains against her shoulders was leavin' gashes that tore open her sleeves and cut up her skin.

I caught her again, tryna stop her from doing herself any more damage. She shoved me straight down. Jungle Jane was fuckin' strong for a sick lady.

Right there as I lay on the ground, my soul could'a shattered to dust. It was the same every time. Listenin' to the sound of someone crying out for God? Knowin' that they're in there, watchin' helpless as some fiendish, fucked up abomination that used to only exist in movies and nightmares rips into their own flesh? That was a fate worse than dyin' yourself. But watchin' someone else go through it was one of the worst things I'd seen to this day.

Ryan had gone mute from inside. Same couldn't be said for Birdsong, though, whose sobs were some'a the most pitiful things I ever did hear. Standin' again, I went over to the door and hung 'round next to her for a little while just in case she wanted to let me know how the hell we could be'a service, or in case she wanted to push me around some more. Here was a woman that I met about five minutes ago, and she might'a just lost the very last person she ever knew and cared somethin' for.

"Hey," I offered. The sound'a my own voice was quiet and blue. To say I didn't have the words would'a been generous, but they don't exactly make Hallmark cards for reference with this kinda thing, either.

Riskin' a bullet to the head, I took her into my right arm again, mindin' her shoulder. It wasn't much to start from, but when Merle died, bastard that he was, all I wanted from the only other people I'd known was to feel like I didn't have to be runnin' through some fubar dystopia all on my own. Maybe she didn't want the same things that I did, but she deserved to have someone around 'case she needed it. Aaron took her hand and whispered symapthies b'fore giving me what I like to call 'the look.' It wouldn't take more than few minutes now for the walkers to start swarmin' from miles around, and lingerin' on the roof wasn't in the cards as a long-term bid if we didn't wanna end up a bunch'a has-beens, ourselves.

The car and the bike were less than half a mile away, and it was bound to get less fun the longer we waited to get movin'. Not only was she hot as a fire, but she was limp as anything, shakin' like a leaf, and coughin' up half a lung. With a little bit of coaxin', Aaron and I were able to pull her away from the door. The sign that was banded over the chains had Birdsong's own red blood smeared 'cross it in just about every direction.

 _NO_

 _TRESPASSING_

It was time to go.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Any Port in a Storm**

* * *

 _"Ooh, a storm is threat'ning_  
 _My very life today_  
 _If I don't get some shelter_  
 _Ooh yeah, I'm gonna fade away"_

 _-The Rolling Stones_

* * *

 _Such an easygoing song._

"Hey!"  
 _Far away._

"Stay with me! Hey!"  
 _Why?_

"Jungle Jane! This ain't the time!" That voice. The world is shaking. "Come on!"  
 _But I'm_ _so fucking sleepy._

Everything is moving.  
 _Am I the one moving?_

"Honey, can you tell us your name?" People.  
 _No, thank you. I'm sleepy now._

"What is your name?" Beeping.  
 _Shhhh..._

"Where are you from?" More beeping. Annoying.  
 _Too much noise._

"Come on!" Smoky words. I know him.  
 _Where are we going, Arrow Man?_

"We need her up, Daryl! Do something." Unfamiliar.  
 _Where did my song go?_

"Hey!"  
 _Arrow Man._  
"Damn it, Jungle Jane."

"Take the unit off of her and get her into the tub. She's going to fry if we don't do it now."  
 _You're not Arrow Man. Put my song back on._

 _I love that song._

Quiet.

 _Splash._

Cold.

Biting, ruthless cold.

And it was everywhere.

In the amount of time it took my eyes to open, all of those latent sensory receipts I had been stacking rushed back into my body. The cold was so overwhelming that it bated my breath just long enough to send the primitive part of my big, fancy human brain into a blind panic. Reactively, my hand swung out over the porcelain ledge. I gasped loudly and pulled my torso out of the water. It didn't seem to go down the way I planned; I was still frozen from the neck down and very much not vertical whatsoever. A clutter of noise rose and echoed throughout the offensively bright space. There were people here?

However futile my gesture was the first time, I gave it another shot.

Also futile.

I was pinned.

"Easy, na," Arrow Man grunted from somewhere behind me. My fingers pressed into the fleshy arm across my chest. Wherever I was, he was with me. This sleeveless-vest-wearing, crossbow-wielding, post-apocalyptic Robin Hood that I didn't even know. "We gon' stay in here just a little while longer, Jungle Jane." He advised gently, gruffly. He smelled like gasoline.

Kneeling somewhere in front of me was Handsome Guy. Handsome Guy was handsome, and it was very nice when he took my hand over the side of the tub and said 'something, something, something.' From his expression, I'd be willing to bet it was reassuring and sincere. My head was constricted by a delirious and feverish haze, and was still oscillating in and out of vacation mode when he spoke to me, so guessing was the best I could do. There was only one texture I could profoundly identify from out of the din of noises in the room, and it had been the sound of Arrow Man's voice.

Remembering that he was somewhere near me, my eyes searched for him. Not surprisingly, they found nothing other than garish fluorescent lighting. But I guess fluorescent lighting was a pretty surprising thing to find since I hadn't seen it in about two years. To be honest, I was kind of hoping that we as a species wouldn't see a reason to bring it back after it died with the rest of the Old World, but it isn't like I'm the one rebuilding the empire.

Some renegade cowboy still had an arm around me. I followed it with my hand, and felt that his shoulder was covered in wet leather. It was only then I realized that Arrow Man had to have been in the tub with me. Crouched against the back wall, submerged to the waist in ice water in all of his clothes, he was holding my neck and head above the waterline while keeping me immersed as I lay against his chest. His face was the last thing I saw before everything went dark as night.

He had blue eyes.

* * *

 **AN:** It's wine o'clock somewhere.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Twenty Questions**

* * *

Jungle Jane had been swimmin' in drugs straight to the veins for the last couple'a days. I didn't make a habit of stickin' around too much, but Doc said it was some other kinda shit that she was even standin' when we found her. Think the word she used was 'miracle,' but 'miracle' was one of them words I'd kindly removed from the Daryl Dixon edition of the Webster's New World Dictionary. Don't get it twisted, though. There were a healthy number'a phrases that died a noble death every day, s'far as I was concerned. 'Miracle,' along with its other, somewhat less Biblical cousins, 'Big Mac' and 'cash money,' just happened to be some of the few.

"What exactly went on out there?" Didn't need to turn around to know who that was. If any man could foil an escape plan, better believe it'd be Rick Grimes.

Lucy was already on my back when I stopped just short of the gates and threw a nod over my shoulder, croakin' evenly as I could. "Same old," I said, hoping that layin' low would brush him off.

Yeah, that was it. Same old.

Walkers? Check.

Daily allotment of near-death experiences? Check, check, and, wait for it, check.

Jungle Jane chargin' into battle twenty feet ahead of us with nothin' but a Louisville Slugger, takin' down deadheads like some kinda she-hulk mowin' a lawn? Dont' ask me how, but check that one off, too.

Having to say goodbye to my last pack'a smokes 'cause they was soaked through with blood? Check.

Making it back, still breathin', and with another survivor? Check.

I'd say that was just about close to being business as usual as anything. If the devil was in the details, there was no need to go lettin' them fly all over the place 'til it was time for'm to be heard. Furthermore, weren't nothin' that warranted a game'a Twenty Questions 'til Birdsong woke up from her Toradol nap to furnish some'a them answers herself. Tried as we might've to bind up a few more loose pieces of the puzzle while she was under, Aaron and I still came up empty handed. Shit, even the camp had been raided by the time we'd made it back the next day.

"You were supposed to be bringin' back two able-bodied _survivors_." Rick emphasized that last part. His head did that thing where it tilts a little to the side when he's about to say somethin' reactive. Somethin' crazy. "Instead, you took in a _dyin' woman?_ " Yup, there it was. There was the crazy rearing its head up, again. Before he even finished, I's wishin' he hadn't said anything at all. "And her _dog?_ "

My chest tightened. The swell of rage weren't no stranger to me, but it'd been a long time since Rick was the one to bust that can of mine wide open.

Listening to him try to justify leavin' a person, let alone a woman, out there to meet her end? It made me livid.

"Y' know, Rick, sometimes I think you _forget_." I spat my words out at him and stepped up. Must'a been snarling like some kinda rabid junkyard hound, but you could ask me later if I was 'bout to give even the tiniest fuck there ever was. Without Birdsong we'd'a just as easily found ourselves dead tryna leave that town, and all for nothin'.

Finding her was our _job_.

Protecting her was our _job._

Moreover, _it was right._ It had to be.

"What if Hershel'd left Carl out there that day he'd been shot?!" I closed the gap between us, my brows low and lean across my eyes. "Huh?!" Turning my ear to him for effect, I paused, waiting to hear what kinda fucked up shit he had to say next.

He had nothin'. Or if he did, he couldn't manage to get it out before I started hollerin' again. To be fair, I waited somewhere around one to two seconds 'fore I pressed on. "Tell me, Rick! What if Hershel had left him for dead?!" My volume was crankin' up fast and heavy. Birdsong deserved to be alive. She deserved medicine. She deserved a chance.

"That," he began, his tone droppin' into to the dirt, "was different."

"Different?!" I balked. The world was moving. My boots was grindin' into the ground in front of him, back and forth. "That was _different?!_ "

I paced around him. Hell, I paced right up on him, my words like some gnarly, unhinged eruption aiming to take out his hearin'.

"How in the hell was that 'different,' Rick Grimes?! Because he was yours?" I yelled, eyein' him up like prey. My teeth came down on the side'a my thumb. I needed to do somethin' to stop the thousand small needles behind my nose and eyes from gaining any more traction.

"We gotta look out for our own, and you know it," he reasoned out loud.

Most fucking ridiculous thing I'd ever God damned heard.

 _Crack._

My knuckles and wrist seared from the impact.

In the time it took me to draw my hand away, I was on the ground underneath him.

Rick had me in the grass, Lucy's ridges diggin' into the back of my shoulder. I may have taken a few good'uns. Don't remember much about it, but I'm pretty sure that I gave some good'uns right back. Before long, Carol, Glenn, and Aaron were up on us, pryin' the heathen in either of us as far 'part as they were able. Stumblin' to my feet, I touched the ridge of my cheek were Rick had landed the hardest blow. Beneath my fingers, the skin was wet and inflamed.

"What if y'all had left me out there that day I got shot?" My voice fractured at the thought of it, chest heaving. "Ever think'a that, Rick? Ever think'a where you would be right now without Carl? Without-"

 _Without me?_

The end of the sentence just wouldn't come out. Rick looked straight at me like I might as well have put a bolt through the heart of him when I'd said it. Regret stirred up from a quiet place b'neath my waning adrenaline. Reining myself back in, I shook my arm from Aaron's grip. The ire might'a been gone, but the disappointment was thriving just fine. Turning my back to the four of them, I inspected my wet, aching-like-a-son-of-a-bitch hand. It wasn't blood it was covered in.

Glenn and Aaron led Rick away.

"You okay?" Carol asked in that soft way she sometimes had about her.

I nodded.

She gave my shoulder a gentle kinda squeeze, lookin' me over. "She's awake, you know."

Birdsong.

"You should go see her."

* * *

 **AN:** After having to do some heavy editing on the third chapter in the last two days, I decided to try this new thing called outlining and proofreading. Let me know how it's going.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: L'Oiseau Coureur**

* * *

" _Rrrrr._ "

I groaned. There was a paw on my face. A clean, fresh-smelling paw, patting me with a sense of urgency. But now was not really a good time, so I rolled over and buried my face into the softest thing that's been under my head in weeks. It was a pillow. A clean, fresh-smelling pillow. This was all terribly foreign.

Was this what it was like to die?

Was this Heaven?

Because if it was, I had a lot of repenting to do. Perhaps also more than a couple of apology cards to write to my very dear, very Catholic mother for the hard time I had given her about going to church as a kid.

But in, like, five more minutes, though. Because this bed was liiiiiit.

" _Rrrrr. Ruff!_ " Tank insisted, pawing at the back of my head. Little man had not so little talons.

As much as I wasn't very into the idea of waking up, I shifted gingerly onto my back, recognizing the dull throbbing in my shoulders and neck as pain. There were these beautifully crisp linens surrounding me; they rustled with the motion, releasing into the air a subtle hint of lavender. My eyelids fluttered open to the defocused and lazily spinning blades of a ceiling fan. Briefly, I wondered if all of this end of the world nonsense had been a dream.

Tank's nose barged eagerly into my entire field of vision, followed by his ears and eyes. He barked happily, directly into my face, way more than once.

God, I loved that annoying little bastard.

Reaching up to lavish him with head-scratches, I began to survey wherever the hell I was.

"Oh!" Someone called out from beyond the door. "You're awake!"

The woman who peeked sheepishly into the room introduced herself as Denise. She seemed exceptionally happy to see me. Frankly, I had no idea why, but it didn't seem polite to interrogate someone who had been (presumably) doting on your every need while you lay there, lifeless and consuming resources for _x_ amount of hours. Or, as was evident from the growth on my legs, days. Really, really needed to take a razor to these sticks. Impending doom was not an excuse for looking sloppy.

"I'm clean," I observed aloud. My tactfulness is matched only by my devastating charm, to be honest.

I was astonishingly clean, in fact. My skin was spotless and soft, something it hadn't been for quite some time. All of the small wounds on my hands had been tended to with care. My fingernails had been scrubbed and manicured thoughtfully; from the looks of it as I stole a glance down, my feet and toes had met a similar and equally enchanting fate. Whoever these people were, they devoted ample time to my well-being, which was a level of hospitality and good nature that I hadn't encountered since leaving the Caribbean.

"I-" Denise paused. She appeared to be fairly uncomfortable, wringing a cloth in her palms. "I hope you don't mind. The girls and I- well, we wanted to get you cleaned up so we could make sure we weren't missing anything important." Her eyes were burning a hole into something that must have been really captivating on the baseboard.

Not that I expected anyone to know this, but more people have seen me naked than have seen me with clothes on for the latter portion of my adult life.

Did she really think I would have been upset that someone took the time to haul me into a bath?

"Thanks," I flashed her a smile and wiggled my fingertips. "The nails are a nice touch."

Her laugh was small and conscientious.

"May I?" She asked on a timid approach further into the room. From her demeanor, I could surmise that these people, or at least Denise, hadn't seen too much of the Badlands. Nor did I think they were privy to the types of savages that have been running through it as of late. If they had, I doubt they would be so awkwardly warm and accommodating.

"F'sho'." What else was I going to say? 'No, lady who made sure my strange ass was alive, you may not'?

As if I would.

Tank was pleased to see her. Then again, he always did like the chicks just a little more than he liked the dudes. Denise gave him some love before inspecting the bandages around my shoulders and chest. Measuring whichever of the vitals she could, she threw in a couple of professional-sounding questions; none of which, thankfully, were personal. What struck me about wherever we were was the acute lack of equipment at her disposal. Though it did make a whole lot of sense, considering my new digs appeared to be the second story of an exquisitely appointed house rather than a hospital or reasonable facsimile, it gave me the impression that they were not very well-equipped. Whether it was due to a lack of people or a lack of immediately available cities to pilfer was another matter entirely.

On the upswing, at least they lived with a little style. Even if I couldn't understand why anyone, anywhere, would choose a life this far into the Dead Zone, the finishes in the room were luxurious enough to suggest that they had a solid home base. There was electricity and potable running water, which was a feat in and of itself. The floor was a deeply stained hard wood, and the moldings were complete from floor to ceiling. Not to mention this bed being the single greatest bed I have ever slept on. And I stayed at the Waldorf Astoria once.

Prior to her slightly awkward exit, Denise advised that I stick close to bed. Something about the antibiotics occasionally making people a little high. It didn't sound like a bad time. In fact, I hadn't been under the influence of anything since this whole thing started, so if I had to trip my face off on Levaquin, that was actually one hundred percent cool with me.

She mentioned that she had taken temporary residence downstairs in the event that I needed anything, and encouraged me to annoy, bother, or otherwise distract her as much as I saw fit. Throughout the course of the morning Tank and I intermittently napped to some good, old-fashioned jams. On occasion, the sound of people snooping around the front garden came and went, enough to rouse Admiral Tank into guardian mode. For those that were brave enough to knock or ring the doorbell, Doc turned all of them away. I wasn't sure what I had done to fall into her favor, but it was comforting to know that I wouldn't have to deal with facing the overtly friendly townspeople just yet. Especially not with this horrendous white nightie.

Somewhere around noon, there was a soft tapping on the bedroom door. I had been sitting on the windowsill, peering over the edge of this incredibly weird settlement and into the forest, signaling for Ry through the open window. You could ask me if I was expecting to find her, and I wouldn't be able to answer. Hoping to hear a callback echo from across the heavily wooded distance wouldn't be the death of me, but giving up most definitely would. And giving up on her just wasn't something I was ready to do. Not right now. Not until I found her in that clinic myself.

My hands fell from around my mouth, interrupting the cadence of our homing call. I drew the billowing white gown closed over my battered, but still smokin', mummified bod.

"Still kickin', Doc." I reassured Denise over my shoulder.

"But are y'decent?" Not Denise asked through the door, surly and grey.

Arrow Man's voice triggered the vague memory of being cradled in an ice bath. It was some time after we got into the gates of Alexandria. The entire world had gone white before I'd even hit the floor. But he had been there with me, holding me like some kind of fragile, porcelain doll. Like I was the last person left on this green and soulless earth. All of his clothes were soaked in freezing cold water, but he wouldn't leave me in there on my own. How a man with a heart like that made it this far, I hadn't a fucking clue.

But I owed him my life, and I owed it to him at least twice. Once for the arrow through the walker by the ladder, and once for bringing me here.

"Might be."

Completely unfazed, Arrow Man walked through the door. In one hand, he had flowers. In the other, he had food.

 _'Helloooooo, nurse,'_ I quipped internally, closing my slack jaw and standing up as he approached.

I might actually fucking miss this place when I leave.

* * *

 **AN:** Big-ups to everyone that left reviews, and thank you to those that are following! I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

As always, feedback of all kinds is welcome. This is my first piece in ages, and the only one I've written from a rotating first-person perspective, so give me a shout if you have some advice!


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Hook**

* * *

If there was one thing Carol was good at, it was naggin'. You know, when she wasn't busy being one of the baddest sons a bitches y'ever come across. Even when she was dressed like somebody's schoolteacher from back on Plymouth Rock, a little bit of the side-eye from her was enough to straighten me out in some of my rougher times. It wasn't like I minded it, though; as new to me as havin' a family was, I would be lyin' if I said I didn't like it. There weren't nothin' that could compare to the feeling of meaning somethin' to somebody, and having them mean somethin' to you all the same.

By the middle'a the day, she had shoved a casserole and a loaf of bread into my hands and ordered me on my way. Truth be told, the idea of visiting Birdsong made me nervous for more reasons than one. I took the liberty of walking the longest route to where she was holed up, running versions of our conversation inside my head. In case you was wonderin', none of them went the way I would'a wanted. Flowers and food weren't gonna bring her friend back from the dead. They weren't good 'nough to thank her for saving our skins back in the horde, neither, but it was all we had to give. That, and a little shelter for the time being.

"You clean up nice, Robin Hood." Unbroken, her voice was deep. Smooth, like velvet, or like that expensive ice cream we found in the beginnin' when we raided one of those fancy markets. The sound of it alone had my pre-planned dialogue in a tailspin already.

I slid into the room and left the door open. She had been by the window, makin' that weird-ass fuckin' bird call again. Tugged at m'heart strings more than a smidge.

"Ain't nothin'," I managed. Her eyes was fixed on mine like a strobe in a storm.

In my entire life, I can count on one hand how many times a woman took the wind outta me. This was one'a them. There was this kinda quiet intensity about her. Though she had been tidied up, Jungle Jane still looked a little wild; a little feral. Her skin was that same bronze as b'fore, but against that ugly-as-sin white thing she was wearin', it was like lookin' at the setting'a the sun. After recallin' how lifeless and feeble she was once we got her into town, the sight'a her now was somethin' like the movies. I could still feel the weight of her laid up on my chest, hot as the flames of Hell.

"Are you making eyes at me?" She asked.

I liked her style.

"Might be," I mocked. "Might be wonderin' whose grandma you inherited that moo-moo from, too." Looked like a god damned parachute. All the good things about Alexandria considered, their apparel wasn't one of'um.

"Yours, probably." She wrinkled her nose and laughed a little before pointing to the flowers. "Those for me?"

"Naw." My eyes narrowed at her, and I gave her my best frown, "but I thought maybe you could watch'm for me."

Birdsong came over to where I's standin', lookin' like Miss Sunshine and shit, and stopped right in front of me. She was tall; about as tall as I was. And just 'bout as broad, too. I remembered how heavy she had been when we tried to carry her through the town. It took two of us just to move her crazy, bat-swingin', pneumonia-havin' ass. It was only when we got her into the house and into the tub that I realized she was made'a the kinda muscle that had me wantin' to do more push-ups in my day-to-day life.

My eyes was trained on her. Then again, I s'pose they had been since the minute we met on that rooftop. She was so close to me that I could taste the salt of her skin in the air. Birdsong looked me dead in the eyes with those honey browns. Like it weren't nothin' at all, she leaned in and gave me a demure kiss on the cheek, eased the flowers out of my hand, and went to find them a home with a simple and sweet kinda 'thank you.' Pretty sure I grumbled somethin' well-meaning and sat my ass down at the little table to catch a breath.

My voice couldn't a'been more shook, but I had to say somethin'. "You hungry?"

If she noticed how wrecked I was, she didn't show it. "Always," she replied from the en suite (learnt that word yesterday), fixin' up the flowers in a nice little cup and setting'm next to the window.

"Make you a deal." I baited her. She didn't strike me as the type to go down easy, but we'd see about that soon enough.

She sat across from me. If looks could kill, she might'a been almost as deadly as Carol.

The corner of my mouth curled upward just the tiniest bit. "I fix us some lunch," I paused, "you tell me your name."

Her eyes floated up to the sky for a minute before she shot me down. "No deal."

Son of a-

"Counter-offer," that silky voice came at me again. "You fix us lunch, grab that bottle of rye from my pack, and we get real candid."

Me?

She wanted to know about me? I didn't understand what the hell for, but it wasn't like I had shit else to do. Far as I knew, Rick had me grounded from the outdoors until the walkers calmed down, Carol didn't want to see my ol' mug 'round hers, anyhow, and Aaron and I had been suspended from recruitin' until we figured out what to make'a this girl. She had me under her thumb.

Also, she had rye.

"Deal."

This girl was gon' be the death of me.

I could just feel it.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: The All Blacks**

* * *

His cheek was hot and inflamed where I had kissed him, and his hand calloused and cracked under my own. Arrow Man was different from Denise and Handsome Guy in that he seemed to be the type of person who was rugged by design, rather than someone who had become so by chance or necessity. Rough around the edges and a little unkempt, his dirty blonde hair was dusted over his eyes, and the infamous leather vest that I recalled from our ice-fishing adventure still smelled faintly of gasoline and Marlboro Reds. The roguish way he had about him was something I considered one of his most defining attributes. Not only did that kind of thing endear him to me slightly, but it also highlighted the contrast between him, a Robin Hood of sorts with this bold and full-bodied southern drawl, and the pristine, nouveau riche commune we were standing in the middle of.

There was something unmistakably kindred about him.

Something like our apparent mutual love of bread, which was a fine place to start.

"Thank you," the serene murmur floated over my tongue. It didn't even sound like my own voice; the tone was so saccharine and naive. Between the intravenous cocktail of drugs Denise had so generously given me and the elation of being alive, I must have sounded like a schoolgirl on mushrooms.

Didn't care much, though. Her shots were some of the best stuff around, and later until the end of time was long enough to have to remain completely sober. I would relish this opportunity to be sheltered and blissfully dazed for as long as my final dose would last.

So, like, three more hours-ish.

 _'Fate giveth. Fate taketh away.'_

Sashaying into the recesses of the room, I searched for something (anything?) suitable to display Arrow Man's bouquet in. The native flora were small and vibrant; their petals had hues of purple and pink and orange with delicate square edges and broad, dark leaves underneath. My heart rose happily at the sight of them. There weren't many flowers in the middle of the Atlantic. In fact, most of the scenery was canvas, steel, or hemp, with the occasional dirty shipmate regaling you with the same story he told both yesterday and the day before that. There were also waves. Rising, falling, and endlessly dark and brooding.

Flowers were a welcome change.

To hold something from the earth in my hands made me feel like I was walking down the aisle. Though I might have been in a questionably fashioned muumuu that floated around my silhouette in a way that would make MC Hammer proud, and though my hair was untamed at best, the sentiment was still there. This was probably the closest I would ever come to being married, but, oddly enough, the thought didn't bother me very much at all. It never had, in fact. Somewhere, my mother was having chest pains at the realization of my being eternally promiscuous and unwed, living a life of sin and peril (sorry, Mom), but that was neither here nor there.

Arrow Man was kind.

"Ain't nothin'," he grumbled inaudibly. He had a voice that was gentle, if not reticent. It always sounded like that when he spoke to me, I noticed. Tender.

I glanced back toward him. He had slumped into a chair at the small dinette next to the window, with an expression as motionless as the Farnese statue of Atlas. Tank was laying eagerly at his feet, but my favorite Dystopian Robin Hood didn't pay it any mind. Instead, his weathered fingers deliberately fiddled with the beveled edge of his casserole dish, chasing droplets of condensation while he intently stared out the window. He kept the banter polite and brief.

 _'Yes, I am starving, thank you for asking.'  
_ _'Yes, I am planning to get very, very fat. Huge, actually.'_

For me, it had always been easy to forget that affection from strangers wasn't a universally appreciated and welcome gesture. As the cool running water splashed over my hands and into the glass cup between them, I ruminated over how uncomfortable that kind of thing might make someone in modern day Apocalyptica. Someone like the rugged Arrow Man, who didn't look particularly excited to have been harassed with a kiss, however graciously intended it might have been.

But that was just too bad.

He would have to get used to being liked.

I sat right across from him at the dinette. For at least two thousand miles in any direction, our dashing anti-hero was the only person I knew. Although it sounds insensitive to say that I didn't care how he felt about being considered a friend to me, the strange, tree-dwelling woman he called Jungle Jane, it was pretty much the stone cold truth. Potential friend, anyway. A large part of our camaraderie was going to hinge upon whether or not he was as equitable a partner in feasting as he was in combat.

After all, Grandma always said never to trust someone who doesn't eat, and nobody fucked with old Gran.

It was that simple life philosophy of hers that, over two decades later, remained etched somewhere deep in the analytical drift of my subconscious. Men without an appetite had no place at my table, but not for reasons that were especially frivolous or vain. Her breed of old-school wisdom was more profound than it sounded at first. It was meant to be a testament of character and an indicator of intention.

New people could always be measured by two very distinct and different virtues, from what I found over the years. The first was the way they treated others; you could determine almost everything about someone's personality by the way they interacted with a variety of other people under a range of circumstances. What they did when you were looking, and what they did when they thought nobody was around. How they treated someone less fortunate, and how they treated those with power. Those kinds of things meant more than most people gave them credit for.

So when Arrow Man propositioned me for my name, you see, I was inclined to give it to him. He clearly treated others very well. Here I was a living, breathing proof.

But not without something in return.

No. He would have to eat, and he would have to drink, because the second virtue of measure would be the way he was inclined to treat himself.

Getting a decent gauge of who he was seemed like the smart thing to do; something that Gran would do. He was an unusual man in the middle of a bizarrely perfect town, that happened to thrive a-okay, right in the beating heart of unadulterated chaos for however long it had been since the Apocalypse hit the mainland. Before I bled my life story out to him and jeopardized the only thing left for me in this shit show, I would have to know what was up.

So we struck a deal.

We would drink and eat; question for question, answer for answer, and plate for plate. With the grace of a thousand leather-vested, arrow-throwing swans, he tossed me a woefully unfortunate looking backpack. I soon recognized it as my own, and reminded myself to clean it some time after the bi-monthly ritual of shaving my legs was to commence later. Priorities were a wonderful thing.

"Y'don't tell me your name, I'mma just keep callin' you Jungle Jane." He threatened, looking my way. Robin Hood set a plate of something steaming and cheesy-smelling in front of me before sitting down again. Pasta, meat, and cheese, along with some fresh green things. There were vegetables here?

Laughing a little, I dispensed some of the small-batch evenly into two short and stocky glasses. "Hopefully, I don't forget it by the time you ask again." We clinked what sounded like crystal wares, his eyes fixed on mine. I don't remember if he was smiling; I think he had been.

I knew that I was.

The rye soothed my soul a little on the way down. It was as sweet and smoky and pithy as it had been before the end of the world. The casserole was next. Though it may not have looked like anything special, what with it all being mashed together and cemented by flecks of some kind of rich and funky Velveeta kind of stuff, it was delicious. Like, really, really good.

I also hadn't eaten anything for a few days, but that didn't swing my bias one way or the other. Even if I wasn't totally famished and sick to death of gnawing on cured fish and stale crackers, this shit would still rock my world. Food was one of my favorite languages to speak, and the warm bake Arrow Man brought was comfort food at its Midwestern USA best. Nothing quite coasted my joy the way eating and drinking and being merry did, so it looked like casserole with a side of barrel-aged rye was about to become my New World caviar and champagne. Hopefully he penciled me in for lunch on repeat tomorrow.

"Can't believe I've never had a casserole before." I admitted sheepishly. That may have sounded dumb, but it was true.

Arrow Man snickered, wiping his mouth and taking another sip of whiskey. "You can't be serious," he gaffed, shaking his head in a way that was almost playful before looking back down at his plate. "Even I know how t'make one'a these things."

He seemed to be loosening up a little bit, which was something I could dig. Without the pending threat of dead-eyed types and marauders abound, it was a little easier to relax. I hadn't spoken this much, or this intimately, to anyone except for Ry in a long while myself, and it was genuinely an awesome feeling. To find good company in life was rare enough. To find it here was something near impossible.

"Oh, yeah?" I teased. "Did you make this one?"

Another bite.

Another laugh. "Na. I'm just here to catch the bunnies we skin'm for." He was a hunter.

Another glance.

The amber liquid curled seductively as it filled the bottom of two empty glasses, glistening in the early afternoon sun. Arrow Man's pour was heavy.

Another refill.

Another toast.

The question that burned through me finally made it into the room. "How did you find me?"

I had to know.

His gaze digressed to his fork. It made that succinct scraping sound against the porcelain dish as he coaxed the last bit of rabbit and pasta onto steel tines. You know, the kind that could almost send a shiver down your back if it was a little louder. His tone, that had before been jovial and lighthearted, became grave and soft. "I's huntin'," he began, "when I heard you make that call."

A pause.

"Ain't never heard no bird like that b'fore." He shrugged, hesitant eyes looking up at me. "Then again, I'd never been outta Georgia, neither."

They were blue. Not just any blue, but a dusky, tumultuous blue; a blue like the ocean during a storm. All at once, that primitive part of my big, fancy human brain (the same one as before) remembered the sensation of his arms around me while we were surrounded by slick contours of white ceramic lines and a cold, wet abyss. My body had been racking violently and rhythmically, shudder after shudder, protesting against the frigid temperature. He held me fast to his chest and still, and he called me Jungle Jane in that gentle rasp of his.

"When I finally closed in on the sound, well, that's when I seen y'up there in the trees like some wild woman." The memory was gone as quickly as it came, but the feeling of him lingered wistfully there in my bones.

That was how I got the name.

"Jungle Jane?" I asked.

He chuckled. It was something almost shy, but uncertain. "Yeah. Jungle Jane." One more scoop of casserole landed on my plate, and one more went to his. "But that ain't all..."

Another taste of the drink.

Another bite.

Arrow Man explained everything he knew about the town. About how they were searching for new recruits after having arrived no more than three or four weeks ago themselves. How Handsome Man, or Aaron, as he was called, found him and his group after a particularly unsavory stretch out in the wilderness, where they had been holed up in a barn and yearning for some stability. I could gather from the context of their 'acceptance,' as he called it, into Alexandria that it hadn't been an easy ride for them out through the Badlands, but the priors weren't mentioned in any explicit detail.

They had followed Ryan and I for a few days, trying to determine if we were good or bad. If we could be trusted or if we were trouble. In all of the supply runs our crew, the All Blacks, had made from the Isle of Dominica to the mainland, nobody had ever spotted us traversing the canopy before. He must have been exceptionally keen, and very capable. It made me feel a little less vulnerable to know that the first man to find us was a brilliant tracker and hunter with a noble heart. But only marginally less careless for getting caught.

 _'Us.'_

The word had me staring down my glass like maybe it had crossed me in a previous life.

 _Siiip._

If self-loathing had a place and time, this most definitely wasn't it. Gingerly homing the rye back onto the distressed wooden surface of the table, I rose to my feet. Arrow Man had earned my true and honest name. He had earned it more than once, mind you, but it was around right now that I was indelibly thirsty to know his. A fleeting look of horror sprinted across his face when he stood alongside me. With a touch of encouragement from the Virginian autumn breeze, my hideous Alexandria standard-issue hospital muumuu had billowed open, again.

Luckily for him, everything from shoulders to navel was wrapped tightly in itchy cotton bandages. The gown also came with equally flattering drawstring shorts directly out of a Rocky training montage. If the human physique in and of itself was harmless, it was doubly so when mummified. I couldn't be bothered to mess with the thing anymore. I would set this damn dress ablaze in a bonfire on my way out of town, anyway.

Extending my right arm towards his, I shot him a grin that was somewhat coy. "Remington Black."

He took my hand and he shook it, very, _very_ slowly. "Rem-" He stopped. "What?" The expression he bore was puzzled and seemed a little betrayed. "That's?"

I got the feeling he didn't believe me.

This happened literally every time introductions rolled around a room.

My brow furrowed.

"Pfft!" Arrow Man hoarsely laughed and took a step into the void between us. "No it ain't." At least he was equipped with a reasonably good, if not misplaced, sense of humor. His manners were top-notch, too. My hand was quite respectfully still held in his, even though he must have thought I was either fucking around or completely daft. "Wit'cha comic book soundin' ass."

That was the first time I'd heard someone use that particularly colorful way to describe my name. The earnestness of it almost made me laugh. _Almost._

I bit back my smile and bid myself to make an excessively serious face. The kind of face that you would make at your annoying little brother when he broke something important. My nose was wrinkled, and my lips were pursed to one side. "It is, too!" The words might have been pouted, slightly juvenile and a little annoyed, but they were insistent.

He watched me in disbelief with one of his eyebrows in the clouds. I secretly wished it would get stuck like that for at least a day to teach him a lesson about doubting strange tree-dwelling women from the Caribbean. With resignation, I carefully returned his hand to his side for the time being. At least there was proof swimming somewhere around in this parachute of a garment. I searched for it thoroughly under scrutiny.

The merchant mariner credential booklet appeared almost identical to an international passport in every aspect of size and shape. It was one of the very few personal items I kept with me, sealed in dense plastic, at all times. You know, just in case civilization and I were to ever cross paths again. Or in the event that I wanted to win a bet for munitions or quick, useless cash. From the front pocket of the smock, I produced a little red booklet between middle and forefinger.

Then, pressed it right against his leather vest.

This was always the coolest part of the introduction, if we're being completely honest. Anticipation of imminent triumph spread my grin like butter from one side of the room to the other. "Captain," I corrected with a dulcet and restrained sense of conquest in the title, "Remington Black."

Boom.

He snatched the credential from me with narrowed eyes. There was an opportunity to be seized while he thumbed through its pages with skeptic-face. His glass of whiskey found my mouth in a manner that I was powerless to stop. Arrow Man glanced up from what an educated person could only presume was the name and identification page, inspecting me briefly before he looked back down to the photo. And then back up at me. Then to the dinette.

He returned the booklet and took my barren cup from the table.

Another refill.

Another toast.

"Daryl Dixon," Arrow Man nodded. "Much obliged." The pressure of his fingers was warm and hospitable.

Another glance.

Another sip.

Another smile.

* * *

 **AN:** Now that the holidays are over and I am filled with cookies, regularly scheduled posting will resume. Welcome back!


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